


Second of Seven

by Petyrs



Series: Capitalia Vitia [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 21:43:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petyrs/pseuds/Petyrs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa may be exhausted after a long day of rule, but Petyr sees no reason to fall asleep just yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second of Seven

It was late when he called on her, so late she had almost stopped expecting him; instead, in the small hours of the night, her door hinges creaked quietly and Petyr stepped into the dim rooms. She had been dozing lightly, fingers marking her place in a book of histories ( _he_ had sparked her interest in them), but Sansa straightened at the sound. “I had almost given up on you,” she murmurs in a voice heavy with sleep.

Petyr smiles slowly as he advances towards the bed. “How _disappointing_ that is, my sweet,” he says, placing a light kiss on her forehead and removing the tome to the floor. “I was _so_ looking forward to our visit. But- you would know that.” Sansa rolls onto her side to cast an appraising look at her councilor. “A queen knows many things, Lord Baelish,” she replies playfully. “But she is also unaccustomed to being made to _wait_.”

His smile becomes contrite then, smaller and more sincere than his greeting. Their games always dissolved in the dark privacy of her rooms; or at least, they were replaced with more… _mutualistic_ endeavors. “A queen might also know how inescapable the work of a realm is, no matter how doggedly its loyal servants work. All the same, my most abject apologies, your grace.” Petyr lowers himself to the mattress, his eyes gleaming wickedly in the dying candlelight. As he slides a hand languidly over the curve of her hip, Sansa huffs in defeat. “Very well, my lord, you are excused.” She curls her head beneath his collarbone, mumbling into his chest. “But your queen is still exhausted. Perhaps another night…,” she promises, winding her arms around his waist.

He chuckles lowly, trailing feather-light kisses along her neck as his caresses turn weightier, more insistent. “And what is wrong with tonight, darling?” She groans and stretches indulgently into Petyr’s touch, aware of his half-hard cock against her stomach. “So…tired…,” she complains. He sweeps his hand to clutch at the top of her thigh, dragging his palm along the curve of her ass to dig his fingers into the hollow at the small of her back. “I could…wake you up,” he offers, voice rumbling in his chest.

Sansa brings her chin up to lazily scrape her teeth along his throat, still covered with the day’s stubble. “No,” she breathes, “It is so late now, just sleep here.” At the suggestion, Petyr shakes his head heavily, taking in the scent of soap and candle-smoke in her tresses. “I don’t think so, my lady. Though- it would pain me to cause you undue distress,” he purrs. Taking a firm hold on her waist, he rolls Sansa to her back, pressing one hand against her shoulder in a silent instruction to stay put. She quirks a fiery brow but stays silent, breathing deeply.

Baelish runs an appreciative hand along her jaw, down the line of her neck, lingering at the curve of her breast to circle a hardened nipple; temporarily sated, his body follows the hand's journey downward, splaying his fingers across her stomach, ghosting along her inner thigh before catching at the hem of her shift. Petyr’s hand advances back up her leg now, dragging the cottony fabric with it, bunching it at her hips. “Petyr…,” Sansa admonishes him quietly, still remaining prone. “Shh, my love.” He lowers his eyes appreciatively to her exposed sex. “Shut your eyes. Sleep.” Smirking against her skin, he plants a firm kiss in the dimple where thigh meets hip. “…If you can.”

He runs his mouth across her outer lips, inhaling deeply. Sansa’s breath leaves her in a long, low moan. “Petyr,” she warns again, but her voice is drugged with arousal. In answer, he purses his mouth in a kiss, spreading his lips to lave her folds with his tongue. Her only response now is to roll her hips upward in encouragement. Taking a firm grip on her waist, Petyr tugs her closer and slides his tongue into her. He moans at the taste of her, sweeter than any wine, and she squirms against the vibrations deep within her.

Petyr works at his assumed task in earnest, swirling his tongue in her, on her, kissing and licking at Sansa’s most sensitive places. One hand drifts south and his thumb brushes lightly at her clit; her breath comes in gasps and her pelvis twitches at each stroke. The hand on her waist adopts a bruising grip as Petyr presses deeper against her core. His tongue moves insistently now, the cloying caresses over; at each mewling cry from Sansa, Petyr pauses to suckle at the newfound spot until she is left whimpering.

Her sighs turn to whines as he labors between her thighs, and soon she is grinding her hips against his mouth, frantically seeking release. She threads a hand through his hair, grayer now than it was the year before, and digs her nails into his scalp as she presses him against herself. “More… _keep_ … _going_ …” He groans at her urgent pleas; panting once against her, his eyes flash up to her flushed face, but her lids are squeezed shut. Petyr drags his tongue across her lips again before thrusting it forcefully into her. Sansa sucks in air with a hiss; a final brush of his fingers across her clit and she shrieks into the cavernous room at her release.

Petyr clings to her bucking hips as she comes and moans in satisfaction at her pleasure. When her spasms decay into trembles, he licks her clean before placing a final kiss in the curling hair between her legs. Eyes still shut, Sansa yanks at his head softly. Scrubbing his mouth with the back of his hand, Petyr draws up beside her, pressing her to his chest. She tugs him closer and tilts her chin to press her mouth against his, running her tongue across his lips. He pulls back to survey her through lowered lashes, an arrogant smirk on his face.

“You’re awfully pleased with yourself, aren’t you?” she mumbles against his doublet; he still has not undressed. “Not _nearly_ as much as you are, my dear.” His eyes glint with a barely concealed laugh. “And I daresay you will be _awfully pleased_ with me again before the night is through,” Petyr promises as his fingers wander between her legs, finding Sansa’s center again.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, read and review! -grabby hands-


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